Tangled Thoughts (31 page)

Jill:
you don't know
anyone. Uncle Dan:
Miss Morrow really does suit you better
. Harlan:
your uncle doesn't like to show his cards until he's ready to play them
.

Chelsea:
he's silver. Always silver. About everything, even you
.

Aunt Mel:
he'd not tell you a lot of things if he thought it was better.

Were they right and I was wrong? Or was my uncle just protecting me?

I knew Dan loved me. More than that. He'd been there for me whenever I needed him, since my own father couldn't and even before then. He'd arranged for me to come to DC when I couldn't do it myself. He valued my opinion. He trusted me with tasks that rightfully belonged to people far more superior.

Why was I doubting him? Why was I doubting
myself
?

Now was the wrong fucking time for an identity crisis.

I figured the week-long headache I had upon returning to DC was what it felt like when everything you'd been convinced you knew—about yourself and the people who were important to you—started to crack. I
thought
I'd known myself. I thought I'd had everything figured out, too. But maybe I'd been too isolated to really know anything.

The crumbling of so many convincing illusions fucking
hurt
.

I tried to conjure a single image of my uncle that corroborated what Chelsea had said about him, what Harlan and
everyone
had said, but I couldn't. He didn't want to use me; he wanted the best for me. Always had.

But then, there
was
an image. Not of me, but of Lainey. Standing with Uncle Dan on the graduation stage. I closed my eyes and it floated to the surface. I hadn't understood her expression at the time, but my brain called it up now with shocking clarity: revulsion. She looked as if his arm around her shoulder burned her skin.

She looked like she hated him.

“Surely you're enjoying yourself.”

My eyes popped open at the sound of his voice, and I remembered where I was.
When
I was. Uncle Dan was coming through the office. He was on the phone, on one end of a conversation that amused him. I'd heard him this way many times, and I pitied whoever was disappointing him now.

“No? Then what is it?…Of course you do. I knew you would.”

I pictured him, his patiently expectant expression as he waited for the person to come around.

“All the better…Than you? Perhaps. But in the meantime, you can reap the benefits.” Uncle Dan's face split into a grin when he saw me waiting at my cube. He nodded at me as he passed, and I dutifully followed.

“Then you need to keep trying…As long as it takes…The truth is,” he drawled, “I have an eager line for this job out my door right now.” He looked at me while he said this, and I wondered if he'd summoned me just to make that statement true.

“What would you do if you quit now? What do you think would happen?” There was a long pause, presumably while the caller pondered what would happen—and that it wasn't good.

“It's not
me
you should feel bad for disappointing. The old man…No, of course not.” He was smiling now, reeling in whoever had gone off track.

“No, no. I understand perfectly. But you're doing fine. Just relax. Enjoy the opportunity.”

After one last pause, Uncle Dan said, more kindly than before, “They never are.” He hung up then, shaking his head but smiling. The outcome was satisfactory. It always was.

From the doorway, I said, “Uncle,
is
that something I could help with?”

Just my asking pleased him. His grin transformed to the wide and charming one that generally made women flutter and men irritated. “No, no. You're beyond such trifling as that.”

“Well, if there's any way I can help—”

“Believe me, you have helped enough in that regard.” He pecked out his computer password as he spoke, index fingers hunting for the keys. People didn't believe me when I told them he wrote all his memos, even his books, in long hand. He glanced back up at me, still smiling. “But there is something you can do for me.”

T
HE
ZZZZHP
OF
a tape measure through expert hands was an intimidating sound. I thought this as I stood on a wooden box, in my underwear, surrounded by mirrors and mahogany paneling. For a guy who did little more than glance—if that—at what he wore on a daily basis, being fitted for a custom tuxedo felt ridiculous.

Uncle's tailor was old enough to be my grandfather and looked like he'd been born wearing a suit vest. He stepped around me in a complicated waltz, taking stock of my body and my measurements with an efficiency I admired.

“You don't take any notes?”

Mr. Melawi—Sam, he liked to be called—tapped the side of his head. “Perfect recall,” he said, though I knew Sam's gift was from years of practice, not Sententia genes.

“I never thought I'd be doing this,” I admitted. Something about the quiet fitting room brought to mind a confessional. It was the kind of place one could speak freely and did.

He clucked. “I've been waiting for the senator to send you since you arrived here. And then I asked him to, after the press conference. That shirt you wore…” He shook his head. I shifted on the box, feeling sorry for disappointing someone I'd only just met.

“What was wrong with it?”

“Everything,” he pronounced, and I resisted the temptation to laugh. Williams would probably be insulted; he'd chosen it, after all. “You're obviously an athlete—all that hard work, your body deserves clothes that fit.”

“I guess I thought they did.”

He clucked again. “
Now
they will.” He bent to measure my legs, pausing at the point of my inseam. “And to which side do you dress? The left?”

“I'm sorry?”

He met my eyes and glanced back to where he held his tape measure. “Do you rest on the left or right? Preferably.”

Jesus Christ
. He meant my—My face grew hot. Maybe I
didn't
know anything about how clothes fit, if something as personal as that was a factor. Uncle Dan could have warned me about it. But then, he'd grown up in custom suits, probably made right here. Like Lex, he'd never known anything but having money.

“Um, left, yes,” I squeaked out, sounding like a fucking thirteen year old. I cleared my throat. “May I ask how much this will cost?”

“It's taken care of,” Sam assured me, and indeed it was. Uncle had insisted I attend the upcoming gala his charity was sponsoring, and that he buy me a
real
tuxedo to wear to it. “No need for concern.”

“I understand. I'd just like to know, for future reference. In case I'd like to become a regular customer.” After Sam's comments, my entire wardrobe seemed shabby.

Sam smiled to himself. “I can see why you're Daniel's favorite.”

I flushed further, a reflex. My battle with doubt had not reduced my pleasure at hearing those things. “Am I?”

“Always have been. You're the most
and
least like him, I think.”

“It's just that there's no competition. I'm his only nephew.” I didn't go into how technically I wasn't even that.

Sam dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “He's always grooming someone to follow in his footsteps, just like his father.” Which was true. Uncle's slate of interns was always full partly because he enjoyed being a mentor. Was I no different? Over an armful of wool samples that looked almost identical to me, Sam said, “To answer your question, bespoke suits are an investment. This tuxedo will last your entire life if you treat it right. With the three shirts…”

He quoted a number approximately the value of my car. I nodded, hoping my skin hadn't turned green. I'd known Uncle spent thousands even on his day suits, but hearing it out loud was still a shock. At least it wasn't over five figures.

“Amazing to see their dream finally about to happen.” Sam's comment interrupted my mental calculations.

“What dream?”

“President, of course. I've been waiting to add that title to my resume of clients for a long time. Maybe I can finally retire.” He chuckled, then sighed. “Sorry Jacob isn't here to see it. You can step down now, redress.”

I folded my arms over my chest, curious. “This was never Uncle Dan's dream, you know.”

“Oh?” Sam's tone was mild, but I could see his expression reflected in the mirrors. He looked like he was as curious about what I was going to say as I was about why he thought that.

“No,” I said. “It was Mr. Astor's. Uncle used to think he was crazy. It was only after he…passed, Uncle Dan reconsidered. As a way to honor him.” That's what he'd always told me.

“I see,” Sam said, but it was nothing more than platitude. “I must have misunderstood. I'm sure Jacob would be proud.”

“Yeah,” I said, pondering what was more likely: that this man, with perfect recall and years of suiting Mr. Astor and his son, had misunderstood…or that I'd been misled.

Maybe I really didn't know anyone at all. And what had happened to my life if, of all people,
Jillian
turned out to be the one telling me the truth.

Lainey

I
'd missed touching. Not
that
kind—though I'd missed that too. No, the everyday kind. The kind that starts out as flirting, as
thrilling
, and then becomes comfortable. Unconscious, even. An arm around the shoulders, twined fingers, a touch on the back. The kind you do without thinking, just because you
can
.

I'd missed fun, too, and Jack was nothing if not a good sport. “Hee-ya!” I shouted as I threw him to the ground. Again.

“You don't seriously say that?” he coughed, pushing himself up to his knees on the practice mat rolled over the floor.

“Only when I'm thrashing you.”

“This isn't thrashing. I'm a novice!” He coughed again and peered up at me through his messy hair. We were in my favorite private studio room that students could reserve for things like dance or, if you were me, martial arts practice. I liked how this one was covered in mirrors and I could watch Jack flounder from all angles. “And how tall are you again? I swear your legs are infinite.”

“The doctor did once tell me they were longer than average.” I stretched in front of him just to show them off, which was my mistake. Quicker than I expected, he threw a hand out and caught my wrist, tugging me off balance and onto the mat next to him.

“Oof! Not fair!”

Jack laughed, crawling over until he was looking down at me. “Says the girl who's thrashing me.” He leaned down as if he'd pin me, or kiss me, but just as quick as he'd grabbed me, I snaked my long legs around him and rolled until he was beneath me. His eyes were wide, impressed even, and his lips spread into the dimpled smile that now I got to see whenever I wanted.

“Got you.” I leaned over until my hair tickled his face and he laughed again.

“You fight
dirty
.” He tugged my wrists again until I was flush against him. His arms slid around my waist and held me in place. “I like it,” he said into my ear before he kissed me to show me just how much. Lips free again, he said, “Where'd you learn that move anyway? It didn't seem like karate. And can we practice it again?”

I shoved his shoulder and rolled to the side until I was lying next to him, head on his arm, and about as content as I knew how to be. I'd been teaching Jack martial arts for weeks now, and this was how we seemed to finish every session. And despite the obvious temptations, he was actually improving.

“It's not karate,” I admitted. “I learned it in the self-defense class my aunt made me take. Sort of. I left out the part where I knee you in the crotch and run away.”

He tickled my ribs, making me squirm. “And I thank you for that.”

The beginning of the semester, that I'd expected to be so dreary, had flown by in a blur. All the loneliness I'd felt first semester, all the longing, floated away in a haze of laughter and touch and Jack
Kensington. Every spare minute, I spent with him, and even some that weren't.

In my bag where I'd dropped it by the door, my phone buzzed, interrupting my ruminating. “You want to get that?” Jack asked and I shook my head. Whoever it was could wait. “Despite, you know, the bruises and the ass kicking,” Jack went on, “this was fun.” Then he kissed my cheek, the gentle kind, and absently brushed away a piece of my hair. I closed my eyes and wished every moment were this simple.

This. This is what I'd missed. And I had no idea just how much I missed it until I had it again. And that was why I was so afraid to lose it. Again.

Because I had secrets, mountains of damnable secrets, some that I'd never share, but some that I needed to. He needed to know who I was. I couldn't stand the feeling anymore, the secrets like acid, eating up my insides and willing themselves to be poured out.

“What's up, latecomer? You're awfully quiet over there.” Despite his general playfulness, Jack was no idiot.

I took a deep breath. Could I do it? Could I tell him everything, despite what it might cost me? Regardless, I
had
to. I'd waited long enough—it was almost spring break already—and here was as good a place as any.

Finally, I said, “Can we talk for a while?”

“Uh oh.” He chuckled, but he sat up, pulling me up with him. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “If you want me to pack my bags, please just say it quick.”

“No! Of course not. We were just…” I gestured to the mats, where we'd just been tangled up together.

“Yeah, I know. It seemed like you were into it, but…” He shrugged, grinning, but then his face turned the color of fire-place ashes and he grabbed my hand, squeezing a bit too hard. “Are you pregnant?”